


Reconsideration

by Inkblooded_Witch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean and Crowley Bromance, Demon Dean Winchester, Destiel - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-01-05 01:15:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12180036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkblooded_Witch/pseuds/Inkblooded_Witch
Summary: Crowley sits on a throne of hell, but hardly in the way he'd imagined. He hadn't accounted for the elder Winchester remembering he looks good in a crown. Demon!Dean. Warnings include character death and a touch of Destiel.





	1. Crowley

**Author's Note:**

> Sparked by two pins. Links below.  
> https://www.pinterest.com/pin/ARi3EyJgwQtnSkvgoitvsgMa7yg8rY6q9Nqb9-UPVj8RW2HH3lOq9mw/  
> https://www.pinterest.com/pin/Aa7kmltQMRxLFnZ3CPZ8jpiFwnOSc21Ft3k_wsvgcFcFJF50aT1bFqU/

    This wasn't exactly how he had anticipated things falling into place. His pert royal ass belonged on the real throne, not this pathetic excuse for one. It was smaller, cheaper, and far less elaborate. Not to mention dirty. He'd had to lay down a handkerchief to keep the blood splatter on the seat from ruining his suit. Another had been ruined cleaning the arms and back enough for him to do more than perch on its edge.

    Directly to his left sat the _real_ throne of hell. Taller, broader, engraved mahogany, embroidered silk seat cover over a memory foam cushion, everything a king could ask for. Okay so the memory foam was a new touch, one he hadn't thought to add. After his time. But the new, current king had a penchant for the stuff. Damn him.

    The rest of the throne room had also been redecorated. Instead of looking like a true throne room of old, it now resembled a concert hall. The two thrones stood on the stage, the warehouse-like space beyond devoid of people. Well, living people. The stage was the only clean space left, side from a trail of bloody boot prints leading across to the primary throne. Of course the record player sitting behind the thrones was spotless, currently serenading them with AC/DC. Crowley had lost count of how many disloyal and disobedient Demons had been slain. He'd kept track for a while, but after a few weeks and over a fifty thousand dying screams he'd grown bored with it.

    Getting the Mark of Cain onto Dean's arm had seemed like a master plan. Get a Winchester to go dark-side, a powerful Demon who'd be loyal to him. It had worked too, for a while. They'd howled at the moon, had their fun. It was shortly after he'd branched out a bit in his efforts to sate the Mark, sending Dean after souls from deals rather than sending rouge Demons into his path, that something had changed. Crowley still wasn't sure what had done it, what had gotten the wheels turning. It had been nearly a year and frankly he'd begun wondering if it even mattered at this point. All he knew was that one day Dean had decided he didn't want to be a loyal second in command to the king of hell. That same day he'd showed up and informed the former king of hell that he looked good in a crown. It was all downhill from there.

    The Abadon loyalists were the first to be slaughtered. Then the traditionalists, then Crowley's loyalists who refused to believe he'd voluntarily stepped down. The Mark of Cain had gorged on blood those first few months. Not just Demons either. Any Angel who tried to stand in his way also met their end on the First Blade. These days the feathered nuisances had retreated to heaven, a few lingering on Earth. None dared to interfere.

    Whatever he thought of Dean's methods, he had to admit they were effective. It might not be the perfect hell he'd imagined, but it was still reminiscent of a Swiss watch. There were so many Demons he could slaughter the occasional rebellion and still have plenty left. Not that there were many rebellions these days. The few hundred still lying dead in front of them was the first in two months. In the absence of annoying Demons Dean would pop up to Earth, find some dirt bags to gank, then wander back home. There had been a lot of fresh souls who'd shown up thoroughly confused, wondering how hell's king had even found out about their transgressions. It was how more than one squadron of Demons earned a free pass, they spent their time tracking down murderers, rapists, molesters, and general douchebags for their king to gut in their place.

    Sam had been an annoyance, obviously. So rather than deal with his brother Dean had tracked down the Angel currently in charge of heaven. Hanna had been reluctant to deal, but he'd made it too good to refuse. All they had to do was get Sam an express pass to heaven, one he'd never escape, and in return he'd send up a few hundred innocent souls that had ended up in hell. The last Crowley had heard Sam was tucked safely in his personal heaven with Jess, and if he even remembered a need to get out he wasn't successful thus far. A few other hunters had objected in his stead. Some were dead. Others had decided that as bad as Dean was now, he wasn't causing undue trouble. If anything he was making their jobs easier, slaughtering monsters if he grew bored with dirtbag humans. The only one of their number who'd challenged Dean and been spared was the child of Castiel's vessel. Since she was technically still a kid Dean had rolled his eyes, sent a few more innocent souls to heaven to pay her way, and slit her throat. Crowley supposed it was the most mercy Dean supplied these days, a quick death. It was only something he'd intentionally given twice. Once to Sam, once to Claire. Sometimes Crowley wondered if he would be afforded the same courtesy if he ever annoyed the new king. Or Castiel for that matter.

    Ah Castiel. Crowley's last, failed hope. Somewhere between the bad karaoke and the blood baths as he began his reign over hell Dean had had a revelation. Apparently he really was bisexual. So when Castiel had tried to cure him, reason with him, the Angel hadn't been killed. Sometimes Crowley wondered if death mightn't have been kinder in his case.

    When last he'd seen the Angel with broken wings, Castiel had been in one of the many empty torture chambers. They used to be packed, until the Mark got thirsty for blood. Dean had taken to cleaning them out when he got bored. It was why Crowley had noticed someone was in them, why he'd sometimes followed Dean down into them. It had become a daily routine for the king of hell, going down at night to visit his pet Angel. Every time Crowley peeked through the doorway Castiel looked worse and worse hanging from chains in the ceiling, more wounds on his body, more blood pooling at his feet. Initially he'd obviously been constantly toeing the line between life and death. Then Dean had disappeared for a week, coming back with a bottle of grace and Metatron's blood on the First Blade. Crowley had had a front row seat as Dean had opened the bottle, letting Castiel's grace flow back through the Angel's lips. He'd gotten his wings back, as battered as they were, complete with the glow and a blast of power that would have knocked a lesser Demon on their ass. When Crowley had regained his equilibrium it was in time to see the black eyed king of hell plant a rough kiss on bloodied lips.

    Crowley hadn't seen Castiel since then. All he knew was that the torture room was empty and more often than not Dean showed up in the mornings with a bounce in his step. Not to mention one of the useful Demons had bragged about perfecting the method of melting down an Angel's blade into a collar that would bind them. As curious as Crowley was, he wasn't so curious he'd risk his skin to see what had become of the Angel.

    All things considered Dean seemed pretty happy. Not that this meant anyone was safe, but it helped. At current Crowley was listening to the man hum along to whatever song was currently on behind them, and considering they'd been on a loop of Dean's favorites he still didn't know all their names. The First Blade rested across his legs, his hands occupied with an oversized rainbow slinky. An entire room had been dedicated to the cursed things, though why Crowley hadn't the foggiest.

    The most recent slap in the face Crowley had endured rested atop his head. Dean had swaggered in this morning, before the rebellion had made themselves known, still smelling like booze and sex, a paper crown in one hand. Like the kind they gave to kids in restaurants. He'd dropped it onto Crowley's head with a grin and flopped into his throne.

    Crowley was no longer so delusional as to believe he'd always made the smartest calls. He'd sold his soul in the first place for an extra few inches of fun for pity's sake. He'd thought he'd finally gotten it right with Dean. So much for that. Worse, he saw no way to fix it. No way to change it. He was thoroughly, inevitably, stuck as second fiddle.

    "Bullocks," he murmured softly.


	2. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While this was intended to be a one-shot, I received a number of reviews on FanFic requesting follow ups. Your wish is my command, my pretties. :) Am now planning to do two more chapters, with Castiel and Dean's POV.

    Sam staggered a few paces, turning around as soon as he was able to throw himself back at the closing door. His fingers brushed the edge as it slammed shut, yanked back into place by several burly, scowling Angels. A shout of pure frustration erupted from his lips as Sam slammed a palm against the door, chest heaving as he caught his breath. So close. He'd been so damn close. Now they'd move the door to his heaven. Again.

    "How far did you get this time?"

    He closed his eyes slowly, resting his forehead on the brick of their hearth. A moment later cool hands settled on his shoulders, drawing him away from the wall. Sam wrapped an arm around Jess's waist, letting her draw him over to the couch.

    The heaven he and Dean had shared was either no more or lost. They hadn't said and he hadn't asked. Since each heaven was generated by the souls it stood to reason this one was a little different. At current the version he and Jess shared was their dream home, the one they'd talked about here and there when they had occasionally discussed their future. Whatever he'd expected when he'd died, it wasn't to walk through the door of it to find Jess waiting for him. As heavens went it was pretty damn awesome. He had no idea how long it had taken for him to remember how he'd gotten there, what was missing.

    Dying itself had been surprisingly painless, even if it did come back in a rush one day when Jess had pulled a pie from the oven. Dean. Dean dying in his arms. Carrying him back to the bunker and laying his big brother on his bed in the room he'd taken such pride in. He'd tried everything. Crowley, Demon deals, Angels, everything. In desperation he'd even found desperate suckers to do the summoning for him. He hadn't always gotten there in time to keep the deal from going down, something he'd tried not to think about. It hadn't mattered in the end. Five different crossroads Demons had either not known or had endured whatever he'd done to them rather than talk.

    When he had found Dean, it had only been because his brother wanted to be found. Sam had opened the motel door one day to find himself face to face with an all too familiar face. His big brother smiled up at him and said, "Hey Sammy."

    "Dean."

    He would have kept going. Demanded an explanation, something, but then Dean had blinked and his eyes went black. Sam's heart dropped, even as Dean shoved him back into the motel room, First Blade in hand. His left hand had reached instinctively for his weapon, only to have the First Blade jammed against his throat.

    "Don't bother," Dean drawled, slamming the door shut. "I mean you're gonna die, but I figured if I didn't talk to you you'll find some way to drag your ass back down here."

    Sam looked from the blade to his brother, dread so much a stone in his stomach, something that didn't go away even when he was looking into green iris's. "Dean...what are you doing?"

    "I just told you." Dean dropped the blade, shoving Sam's good shoulder hard enough to knock him onto the nearest bed. "See, Crowley seems to think he can keep on being king with me on a leash. Can you really see me being a lackey for eternity?"

    "Uh....wait, so what happened to you? Are you really...

    "Yep, I'm a Demon. A knight of hell. Sweet, huh?"

    Sam couldn't really come up with something to say to that. He was still processing. Not to mention that damned First Blade pointed casually at him.

    Dean chuckled. "Ah, you're getting it. You're looking at the future ruler of hell, Sammy. Which is why I'm here. See, you're a stubborn son of a bitch. You didn't come looking for me in Purgatory, but somehow I doubt you'll sit back while I take over hell."

    "So what? You gonna kill me?"

    "I'll make it quick," Dean promised. "You won't feel a thing. And I talked to Hanna. She runs things upstairs these days, kinda like Naomi, but with less brain probing. Real reasonable, agreed to let you up into heaven with no questions asked once I told her I'd send up five hundred innocent souls Crowley had stashed away."

    Sam felt the blood drain from his face. "You can't do that. Can you?"

    "I can when I'm king. Which will be in a few days. But I figured I'd best get you out of the way first. If memory serves we have this really awesome success rate."

    He'd tried to reason with his brother. Talk him around, convince him to walk away, anything. It hadn't worked. Dean hadn't even listened. Even so he'd kept his promise. Sam saw it coming, but when the First Blade had sliced through his spinal cord at the base of his skull he hadn't felt a thing. He didn't remember being in the veil, just walking through the front door to find Jess.

    As wonderful as it was to see her again, to be with her again, once he remembered what had happened back on earth he couldn't just cool his heels in heaven. He'd explained everything to Jess, as he should have done before Brady had knocked on their door that fateful day. All things considered she took it quite well. She even understood when he'd ended it by admitting he wanted to bust out. While she didn't want to go with him, she didn't stop him either.

    The first time he'd found a door he'd made it about five steps before he'd gotten tossed back. In five total attempts he'd never even made it passed the Sam Winchester wing, which was longer than he'd thought it'd be. Even the information he'd gotten was scraps. When the guards inevitably caught him he'd taken to blurting questions, demanding answers. Usually they ignored him, especially since they'd taken to keeping at least two soldiers stationed nearby.

    Today had been different. Hanna had been among them, an Angel in a female vessel. Apparently she'd hoped to appease him by answering the questions that had been repeated most often. What had happened to Dean? Where was he? How long had he been here? What had happened to Castiel?

    Before her subordinates had thrust him back into his heaven she'd locked eyes with him and stated, "You have been dead approximately eleven months, ten days. Dean Winchester is the new king of hell. He comes and goes, these days he's either languishing in hell with the demoted former king or killing on earth. We have not heard from Castiel in some time. Please stop trying to escape. There is nothing to be done."

    Somehow that last sentence stung the most. There was always something to be done. Hadn't they proved that? Over and over again? Every time the apocalypse loomed, every time the end was nigh, they'd done something. The world spun on because they kept fighting. He sure as hell wasn't about to stop now.

    "Maybe you should...take a break," Jess suggested at length, lacing their fingers together.

    "I can't," Sam admitted after a long minute. "I'm sorry, I can't just sit here. I'll come back, once I save Dean I'll stay here forever. I promise."

    Jess sighed. "Even before I met him that night I knew what he meant to you. What you were to each other. Why do you think I kept nagging you to get him to come visit?"

    Sam smiled tightly, unwilling to meet her eyes.

    "I'm not saying stop. I'm saying take a break. You keep trying the same thing, Sam. I don't think sixth time's going to be the charm. You're the one who aced the LSAT, act like it." The half playful jibe was accompanied by a nudge to his shoulder.

    "What else is there? I can't even get passed the hallway."

    "Don't you know people up here? People who'd be willing to help?"

    His first thought was Bobby, and while there were others he wasn't sure they'd be willing to leave their own heavens. Not that he'd blame them. "I think so."

    "Okay, then assuming you or anyone can get out of this place, then what? I'm guessing Dean burned your body."

    Sam leaned back on the couch, staring down at their intertwined fingers. "So you want me to strategize? With zero research?"

    Jess raised a brow at him. "If you're really so set on this, then yes. Then once you have something real in mind I'll help you. Plus if they don't catch you for a while they might let their guard down."

    A weary smile graced his face, and he lifted their intertwined hands to kiss the back of hers. At least she wasn't trying to talk him out of it. Even if it was just to keep him out of the way, he was happy here. Once he'd saved Dean he could be content.


	3. Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's POV is still pending, but I did finally manage to finish Castiel's.  
> Merry Christmas!  
> Enjoy!

    Angels didn't sleep, though sometimes he wished he could. While getting to sleep had always been a challenge during his stent as a human he missed the escape. Considering his current position it was the only thing he missed about being human. But then If he was one there was no way he'd still be alive.

    He'd felt it when Sam Winchester had died, heard it on Angel radio. Angels didn't care about the death of any random human, but the Winchesters were special, for obvious reasons. When he'd finally tracked down the tiny town where Sam had been at his death, something made easier by the Angels tuned in and willing to help, he'd found something beyond his imagining.

    Castiel had parked by the Impala, dirty and unkempt, crossing the small clearing uncertainly. A funeral pyre was burning, smoke and sparks drifting up into the night's sky. A lone figure sat in a lawn chair before it, booted feet crossed before him, sipping a beer as he watched the flames. When he got closer he could see the First Blade dangling carelessly from Dean's left hand, though he didn't draw his own weapon.

    "Hello Dean."

    "Hey Cas. How's that grace holding up?"

    The Angel frowned, glancing down at himself and taking another step forward. "It's fine. What happened? What....what killed him?"

    "Me."

    It took a minute for that to even compute. "You....Dean, why would you kill Sam? You would never....

    "He would have tried to stop me. Couldn't take that chance, Cas." Dean tossed his empty beer bottle aside carelessly, getting to his feet and turning to face the Angel. Grinning, eyes going black, he continued, "Got a present for you."

    That 'present' as it turned out were the spelled cuffs. The same ones they'd put on Crowley when they'd had the king of hell in their dungeon. When he'd been dragged back to the bunker, a ride he enjoyed from the Impala's trunk, he hadn't been chained in the same room. Instead Dean had locked him in one of the unused bedrooms, introduced him to Netflix, and left for two weeks. When he'd come back it was as hell's new king, and Castiel soon found himself wishing for the claustrophobic room that had been driving him mad.

    Castiel's sense of time was long gone. Time passed differently in hell anyway. The only reason he was able to tell the difference between night and day was because Dean only came to see him at night. That was as true now as it had been when he was one of the few remaining occupants in hell's torture chambers. He hadn't put up much of a fuss during all that, the endless hours of bones being broken just to be healed and broken again. Cuts and gashes and bruises marking his flesh to either be healed or allowed to fester. He'd lost countless gallons of blood, pain making the days blend together. It was then he'd begun wishing for the human blessing of sleep, for any means of escape as he hung by his wrists from chains not long enough for him to sit, much less lie down.

    Three times Dean had come to him with glowing vials of grace. Each time when he could tell the torment was taking its toll and Castiel needed a new battery. The Angel's flimsy attempts at refusal had been ignored, Dean had just pried his jaw open and forced it down his throat.

    The third time this happened Castiel had lifted his head, staring through bleary, swollen eyes as the man he still couldn't bring himself to hate came through the doorway. He recognized the glow peeking from between his fingers, which somehow was more intimidating than the First Blade. "Don't," he'd croaked through split lips. "Just let me die."

    "Not gonna happen. Open up, Cas," he'd ordered, gripping the Angel's jaw. "Relax, Cas. This time it's yours. Got Metatron to fess up before I gutted him."

    Castiel was still processing that when his mouth opened, accepting what the king of hell offered him. Despite his current predicament, once he had his grace back he felt more whole than he had in some time. Something that didn't got away even after a collar that used to be his own Angel blade was snapped around his neck. If anything it intensified as the former human he'd loved as much as a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent was able to love anyone had surprised him with a kiss.

    It was the first of many. Castiel's wounds had been healed, if only so he could walk on his own two feet when Dean moved him to the suite of rooms that were now his. That was where he'd been ever since, some days worse than others. Dean had the room heavily warded, but not so much that it left the Angel overly weakened. Even the door was full of sigils, had there been a window no doubt it would have been the same. Otherwise it wasn't so bad, Dean had converted the suite of royal rooms in black marble to his tastes. A wall full of vinyl, Westerns, and various other forms of his favorite media. A fridge with a constant supply of beer. A large bed with a memory foam mattress. There was even a Daisy Duke poster on one wall. It was how Castiel knew that there were still some traces of the Dean he'd known intact, still hope he could be saved. Not that he was capable of doing the saving. That didn't mean he couldn't cling to those precious scraps of hope.

    Despite the heavy warding Dean had yet to take off his collar, and he seemed to enjoy keeping some sort of chains on the Angel. It made things easier when he came back at night if Castiel was in a reluctant mood. Of the carnal desires that seemed to drive him, sex was high on the list. Eventually Castiel had decided to just be glad it was him who took the brunt of it, not an innocent human, not some demon whore. The wall surrounding the doorway to a fully furnished bathroom was dedicated to every tool and toy humans had concocted and more they hadn't. Dean's creativity hadn't been dampened when he'd become a knight of hell, and he delighted in testing things out on the unprotesting Angel. Well, perhaps unprotesting was a strong word. Castiel had lost count of the times Dean had left in the morning and his throat was horse from screaming, of the times the knight of hell had patched up wounds that would have killed or crippled a human.

    Not every night was bad, though. A handful of times he was actually gentle, if Castiel didn't know any better he might have called it making love. Some days he didn't use the toys, didn't see what Castiel's vessel was capable of handling before breaking. Sometimes he just used him and collapsed, dozing until morning. More than once it had occured to Castiel he could try killing him in those times, but he didn't. Didn't even bother trying, even if he was physically capable at the time. After everything Dean had done, he still couldn't bring himself to do it. So instead he lay next to the sleeping demon, counting his freckles, running his fingers through light brown hair, tracing his pretty features. If Dean woke during any of this he didn't seem angry, just amused, or at worse vaguely annoyed and demanding coffee.

    Castiel dragged his eyes open when he heard the door open, turning his head a little rather than trying to lift it. Last night had not been one of Dean's most merciful. Everything from his waist down ached, the marks on his back from the bullwhip had finally scabbed over, and he could still see the bone of his right arm. Last night Dean had been struck with the urge to try the erotic candle wax technique with lava mid-session.

    Booted feet crossed the room, lights flicking on, making it all the more difficult to focus on the figure approaching him. Fingers picked up his right wrist, examining what remained of his arm. At first Castiel was afraid he'd start poking and tugging at the wound, but he slumped in relief when Dean just pressed two fingers to his shoulder, healing them. He could feel his back mending too, along with everything else.

    When the Angel was fully repaired Dean dropped his wrist, tangling a hand in his hair and dragging his face up. Castiel's eyes drifted closed, not putting up any resistance as his mouth was roughly dominated. Eventually he was allowed to breathe, Dean releasing him and making his way towards the fridge.

    "You should 'a seen Crowley's face when I put that crown on him. Priceless. He's still pissed about losing the throne, not that he's ever going to do anything."

    Castiel sat up, throwing his legs over the bed's edge, naked save for the sheets still clinging to his hips. He knew what Dean was referring to, of course. The knight of hell had mentioned it when he'd come back yesterday. The joke had delighted him, and apparently it still did.

    "Was it from a fast food restaurant or did you find one a party store?"

    "Party store. Figured he deserved fake jewels instead of crappy logos." He took out a beer, popping off the cap and taking a swing as he leaned back against the fridge. "Did you seriously not move all day? Again? You're gonna get flabby."

    "I don't consume food, Dean," Castiel reminded him wearily. He didn't add that he couldn't have moved even if he'd wanted to.

    The king of hell only grunted, wandering over to the turntable as he drank his beer. Castiel went to the bathroom as he studied the selection of vinyl. He took the moment of peace and painlessness to clean up, take a shower and let the hot water pound over him. The Angel knew all too well he would emerge to a pristine bed and a horny demon, but he couldn't bring himself to care. At least the blood on Dean's boots was fresh. The more active he was during the day the less Castiel suffered at night. Maybe he'd even be able to move in the morning.


	4. Dean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small confession: I'll be writing an Epilogue. Merry Christmas! Readers on FanFic have expressed interest in how things pan out, but I can't write a continuing story for this. Not right now anyway. If I did it'd be a big story I simply do NOT have time for right now. I've already got too many pending in my wheelhouse, several of which look like they might be completed within a reasonable period of time. I'm sorry, but I have to prioritize.

    At some point it had occurred to Dean that things might wear thin, but they hadn't yet so he decided not to worry about it. As things stood it had been almost a year and he was still thoroughly enjoying himself. It wasn't as though anyone could stop him.

    Dean turned his head, yawning lazily to look at the figure tangled next to him on the sinfully comfortable bed. Surprisingly, waking up after orgies with multiple beautiful women had lost its charm after a few weeks. The quiet delight of waking up next to the same person every day was now one of his guilty pleasures, if only because he'd never admit to it.

    The king of hell sat up, wondering if Castiel was still in that limbo which was as close as Angels ever got to sleep. He also wondered if Cas even knew it happened. At least this time it wasn't born of pain and suffering, but rather simply being very drained.

    Regardless the Angel didn't move as Dean left the bed, taking a scalding shower and leaving the room. He briefly considered putting some chains on him, so he could come back to find his pet trussed up, but discarded the idea. It had been a week since Castiel had been able to move freely around the rooms, the guy deserved a break.

    It still confused Dean, as loath as he was to admit it. Why he hadn't killed the Angel as he had Sam and everyone else who might pose a threat. Demons weren't supposed to have feelings, not really. For the most part he didn't, which made things all the more baffling. But then Angels weren't supposed to have feelings either, yet Castiel obviously did. It wasn't as often now, but for the first months Dean had gone out of his way to get that look out of big cobalt eyes. He'd tortured him, used him, made him bleed and break and scream and suffer and yet....Castiel didn't hate him. There was no loathing or pity or fear in his eyes, even when he'd used that lava the other night. There was only sorrow.

    Dean would never admit it, but a part of him liked having the Angel around. Someone to talk to, someone who would speak to him like he was still normal. Someone who looked at him and didn't see a demon first, or a knight of hell, or the king of hell, or a hunter. By some insane miracle Castiel was the last person on the planet, under it or over it, that looked at him like he was still...Dean. It was the only reason to keep him around the king of hell was able to put his finger on.

    No one else was in the halls as Dean made his way back to the throne room, though he wasn't oblivious to the soft patter of scattering feet. He smirked, black eyes flicking to each hiding place or hallway they'd ducked down as he passed them. It was adorable, how they scattered like frightened mice. At least Crowley still kept up his loyalty act.

   Maybe he should have killed the former king too, but Crowley had also been spared. However reluctant the demon was still useful, beyond the entertainment value. He'd been around the block more times than Dean had, he'd had some experience in running things. Not to mention Dean still enjoyed toying with him.

    Despite these perfectly reasonable explanations, Dean still hadn't been able to put his finger on why he hadn't beheaded Crowley months ago. It had taken time, and some thinking between massacres, but he'd finally worked it out. More recently he'd come to realize it was the same reason he'd had Sam locked away in heaven rather than cast into the Empty. Why he kept Castiel chained and alive rather than sending him to wherever dead Angels ended up.

    At least his sparing heaven and earth had simpler answers. In short, he wasn't that ambitious. He just didn't care enough to take on heaven, or rather he hadn't gotten that bored. Earth provided a steady stream of douchebags for him to dispense, not to mention wandering its surface was another of his guilty pleasures.

    Sam and Castiel and Crowley were not so simple. Dean sighed quietly to himself, stepping into his newly cleaned throne room, mourning this fact. He crossed a floor that no longer had a trace of blood left on it, going up to a secondary vinyl stash set along the back wall. After some debate he selected a Led Zeppelin album, in the mood for a classic. He set it on the turn table, laid the arm down, and dropped into his throne. Unfortunately even he had to deal with royal business crap, though he could see why Crowley had always avoided it. Zep and the rainbow slinky he kept under his chair helped, but he always went on an inevitable killing spree afterward to blow off steam.

    Not for the first time Dean considered handing things off to Crowley, then discarded the idea. Too risky. The demon was too crafty to lower his guard that much. For now, anyway.

    In truth Dean had been around the block a few times himself. He liked to think he was a realist, seeing things for what they were. In his case, the truth was nothing lasted forever. Even Lucifer's regime hadn't held out. And should something eventually happen to him, be it a challenge or actual death, there were only so many people capable of that. If anyone close to him had the stones to do it, it'd be Crowley. If anyone was able to bust out of heaven's lockdown to try and 'save' him, it'd be Sam.

    Yes, he'd killed Sam to get him out of the way. Yes, he'd demoted Crowley to declaw him. Both would be out of his way for a good long time, but not forever. Sam was too stubborn, and Crowley was, well, Crowley. Dean would eventually get bored, would tire of killing people and demons or simply run out of people and demons to kill. When that happened, he guessed it would be about the time he'd have a rebellion or an escaped Sam to deal with. Boredom problem solved.

    As a somewhat shaky pair of demons emerged with a hefty scroll of issues he had to deal with that day, Dean slumped in his chair and decided to raid a death row afterwards. He'd been doing that at random, his new favorite game. Prisons all over the world were baffled at how their penitentiary's worst got beheaded overnight with no trace of a break-in.

    Somewhere between an issue of a demon stealing another's baby supply and approving crossroads deals, Dean's attention began to drift back to Castiel. Not for the first time he considered bringing the Angel out of his rooms. It would be risky, the throne room wasn't warded, but he doubted the Angel would try anything. He'd been cooped up so long, it must be straining what sanity he might have left. It would have the added effect of rattling Crowley and whoever else saw him. Particularly the convoy of Angels due to arrive tomorrow for payment. He'd maintained Crowley's angelic spies, but they did need to be paid a certain amount of souls periodically. Even they wouldn't take well to see one of their own in a completely subservient state, complete with a collar around his neck. It might be interesting to see how Castiel himself reacted, should Dean decide to chain him to his throne for a day rather than keep him locked up. He'd have to be gentler tonight, or at least heal him in the morning simply so Castiel would be mobile, but it'd be worth it.

    Crowley slunk in and joined him about halfway through the demon deal lists. His crown was gone, which made Dean smirk. Whoever had cleaned the hall had also cleaned his little throne, so he didn't have to waste more handkerchiefs on it. Dean himself had no real attachment to his clothes, nothing like Crowley's beloved suits. But then maybe it was simply a lingering effect from his previous life as a tailor. Baby was still in one piece on earth, tucked away where he could get to her if he so chose but not left in the open where stupid hunters could use her as bait.

    Dean was ready to peel his own face off by the time the demons scurried away, leaving him alone with Crowley again. He stood, stretching, then grinned at his second in command with black eyes. "That convoy still coming in tomorrow?"

    "No, my lord."

    That stopped him. Black eyes narrowed, turning to face Crowley fully. "What do you mean 'no'?"

    Crowley wasn't meeting his gaze, but then he rarely did these days, part of his deference displays. "I mean, it seems Hanna rooted out most of our spies. The bitch is far too good at her job. She'll be coming on their behalf with a group of her personal flying monkey's, probably to politely ask we keep our paws off her people."

    Dean snorted. Great, just great. Having spies was very handy, and not just for Sam updates. Apparently it had taken about seven months, earth time, for him to start his escape attempts. After five tries he'd gone oddly quiet, which was something Dean had wanted to keep an eye on. It was looking like his brother might bust out ahead of schedule. He _needed_ those spies.

    "Shall I arrange an ambush or would you like to slaughter them yourself?"

    "No. Let them come and go. They're no threat."

    "But sire-

    "Don't give me that sire crap," Dean snapped. "She can't do anything but throw a bitch fit and she knows it. If they can come all the way here and go back home without any problems they'll know it's only because I let them." A grin tugged at his face. "Besides, I want to see her face."

    The way he'd said those last words seemed to worry Crowley, which he found highly amusing. "See her face when?" he asked carefully.

    "When she sees what happened to an old buddy of hers."

    Crowley visibly paled, but he didn't ask.

    Oh tomorrow was going to be so much fun. Even if he did have to track down more spies. But he could worry about that later. Right now he needed to find Castiel something to wear besides a trench coat.


End file.
